


A Distant Morning

by ohmyfae



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Ardyn's elusive backstory, Gen, based on official art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 13:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14165772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyfae/pseuds/ohmyfae
Summary: Two thousand years before Noctis is born, Ardyn Caelum becomes the chosen King of Light.





	A Distant Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreamingcicadas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamingcicadas/gifts).



It began on a night made brilliant with stars, with a line of smoke framing the path of a meteor as it hurtled towards earth. It began with the last king of Solheim, atop his throne at the highest point of the city, raising a trembling hand to his heart. It began with a roar, with the whistle of wind, with a black cloud that bloomed from the crater in which the meteor fell. It began with a shriek in the lower city, and the hissing, guttural cry of the first daemon staggering through the streets.

When Solheim was nothing more than a ruin of stone and magic and scattered bones, the survivors dragged the throne through the empty streets, and it began again.

Seventy-six years later, on the night of the winter solstice, the beacons of the capital city of Lucis were lit. They sputtered to life one by one, casting coils of smoke into the blood-red sky, and for a moment it looked as though a ring of daemons stood at the wall surrounding the city, staring down at the people huddled there. In the center of the largest crowd, where the throne of the old kings of Solheim lay empty, Ardyn Caelum gripped his best friend’s shoulder and pointed.

“First star,” he said, tracing a line across the sky. “The goddess, inverted.”

“Not the best omen,” his friend said. Gilgamesh was nearly as tall as Ardyn, filling out the uniform of the city guard with the sure confidence of a man on the rise. His black hair was plaited down his back and studded with gold beads, and his cloak was embroidered with roses, the symbol of his house—A vanity, like the kohl at his eyes and paint on his lips. Ardyn examined his own clothes, which were plain black and too loose at the cuffs, and shook out his sleeves.

“No omens are good these days,” he said. “Look at my brother. Poor Somnus was born under the sign of the Crown, and where was he this time last year?”

Gilgamesh frowned. “Don’t speak ill of him,” he said. “He’s lucky to be alive. He’s lucky not to have gone mad. Most do.”

Ardyn looked to the small cluster of houses in the eastern part of the city, where his brother was likely squirreled away with a book, licking his wounds. The year before, he’d undergone the Trial of the Gods, the ordeal the priests called for every winter solstice, and had come out shuddering and sweating on the cold stone. The gods had not favored him. But then again, they didn’t favor anyone.

Which was probably why Gilgamesh kept leveling heavy, pointed stares Ardyn’s way.

“I’ll be fine, Gil,” Ardyn said. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

“You’ll die,” Gilgamesh said. Ardyn patted him idly on the cheek.

“Yes, well. We all do.”

They watched the light of the sunset give way to the grey of night, and stars winked into view little by little across the cloudless sky. 

At last, the murmuring of the crowd settled to a dull roar, and Ardyn turned at the sound of bells. There were hundreds of them, dragging along the cobblestones, tied to the hems of the priests as they wound their slow way to the plaza. They came to view, a patch of darkness around the bold, colorful dresses and coats of the townsfolk.

Gilgamesh lay a hand on Ardyn’s shoulder, and it was only then that Ardyn realized he was shaking.

“Don’t speak,” Giglamesh whispered.

“The time has come for the chosen king of light to stand forth,” a priest called, in her high, thin voice. “Who will take the Trial of the Gods?”

“Don’t,” Gilgamesh said. His hand tightened on Ardyn’s shoulder. Ardyn rocked forward on his heels. The crowd was silent, watchful, gazes flicking to the young men and women whose eyes burned too eager and too bright. No one spoke. Too many had died, too many gone mad.

The throne of Solheim was bathed in torchlight, cracks in the marble gleaming red, like the veins of a living creature.

Ardyn wrenched himself free of Gilgamesh’s hold. “I will take the trial,” he said.

“Another Caelum,” someone whispered.

“Poor thing.”

As one, the priests nodded. Ardyn came to them as though in a dream, drifting through the silent crowd, and the priests raised their hands to him. They engulfed him, like a forest embracing a hunter at dusk, and all Ardyn could hear was the scrape and jingle of bells on stone.

They led him to the back of the throne, where steps sank under the plaza, and carefully fitted the grille back over the top to prevent others from following them down. Ardyn looked up, and thought for a moment that he could see a shadow standing over them, gold glinting off a heavy braid, but then there were hands on his back and soft whispers in his ear, and he was pushed into a blinding darkness.

“Do not fight us,” a priest said. She was the same one who spoke in the plaza, and Ardyn turned to her as firm hands gripped his, pulling his arms forward. Rope was looped around his wrists, and he winced as they twisted tight against his skin. There was the sound of grinding metal, the hiss of rope and leather, and a grunt of effort to his right.

Then a knife, tickling and cold at the back of his neck.

“Wait,” Ardyn said, but it was too late. His shirt was ripped off his back in a series of short, perfunctory drags of the knife, and Ardyn shivered as scraps of it fell at his waist, leaving him exposed in the cool, damp air of the underground. The rope around his wrists was lifted, and Ardyn hissed out a gasp as hands gripped his legs. His shoes were pulled off, his toes straining as he was heaved off the ground, and for a dizzying moment, panic set in as Ardyn was tugged, in short, jerking movements, towards the roof.

“Release the Crystal,” a priest said, and Ardyn glanced up at the sound of grinding stone. Light poured from a hole overhead, into which the ropes binding him disappeared, and Ardyn’s breath came fast and harsh, his fingers curling around the rope. It was as though he were being dragged into the heart of a small, self-contained sun, and Ardyn’s throat closed with fear as he was lifted too high, as the last priest released him, as he was left dangling and panting, alone.

There was a hush of bells. No. No. They were leaving him, anchoring him to hang with the dazzling light casting spots in his eyes, with pain flaring down his arms and chest as he gasped for air. He squinted into the light, and after a moment, could just see the smallest seed of a crystal within. It was the size of his thumb, with a blue light at its core, and it pulsed like the beat of a heart.

Sweat dripped down Ardyn’s back as the light began to shift, and Ardyn rocked himself closer, trying to spot the shape of the colors swirling in his vision. They solidified at last, and Ardyn’s hands tightened on the rope: It was a sunrise. A sunrise over a city, with buildings higher than the ruins of Solheim, casting a soft light over the distant fields and desert beyond. No daemons lurched in their last moments before the light took them. No clouds of miasma rose to mar the sky. It was simple, nothing but the dawn.

And Ardyn knew that this dawn, this perfect morning, would not exist without him.

The vision broke, and the crystal before him trembled, its light glowing so bright that Ardyn had to close his eyes and turn his face away. The light seemed to pour through him, infusing him, making his body feel distant, the pain of his wrists less fierce. Ardyn tilted his head back and opened his eyes, and two spots of light shone on the ceiling, as though he were the source, as though the crystal had dug its way into his heart.

When the priests returned, Ardyn was shaking too hard to stand. He fell to the stone when they cut him loose, and hands passed over his bare skin, trailing lines in the light that still showed in patches on his body.

“It’s him,” one of the priests said, in a voice that shook. “The chosen king. It’s—“

Another priest hushed him. Ardyn sat back on his heels, breathing deep, but it took some time for him to stand. When he did, the priests took him by the arms, guiding him back up the narrow stairs, lifting the grille, pulling him into the crowded square before the throne.

“The Crystal has chosen its king,” a priest cried, and the crowd erupted with a roar of confusion, of rage, of joy. Gilgamesh pushed himself through the priests to take Ardyn’s hand, but Ardyn didn’t hear him when he spoke, barely looked his way when he squeezed his fingers. He just looked to the sky, to the night that fell over Eos like a curtain, crawling with daemons and the thick fog of the Scourge.

“Dawn’s not far off,” he said, and when Gilgamesh turned to him, all concern and tight, twisted fear, Ardyn threw back his head and laughed.


End file.
